Crawling Towards the Sun
by hannah.jpg
Summary: Éomer and Lothíriel happen across each other two years before the Ring War is won . . .
1. Chapter 1

_Hiya! This is the AU of Tell Me How (available in Drabbles), which I mentioned. Let's just say . . . Eomer and Lothiriel get off on the wrong foot. It's too long for a drabble but maybe too short for a real honest-to-goodness story, but I hope you enjoy it all the same. Cheers!_

* * *

 _3017 TA_

Éomer's hope was dashed the moment he met Denethor's eyes.

The Steward was perched on his black marble seat like a carrion crow, draped in black furs with the shimmer of chainmail visible at his throat. He was, at best, an unpleasant man; his voice was cold, and his eyes unwelcoming. Though he allowed Éomer to speak freely, Éomer knew Denethor had already made his decision. There would be no help from Gondor.

Still he tried. Having practiced this speech for weeks—ever since the idea of appealing to the Steward had come to him—Éomer spoke his plea with surety but without hope. Rohan was desperate, he explained. Orc raids were increasing exponentially. The wizard in Orthanc was harassing their borders. Dunlendings were on the move, harrying defenseless farms and towns.

Éomer was even prepared to answer any of Denethor's questions. But when he stopped to take a breath, the collar of his tunic feeling uncomfortably tight, the Steward raised a hand.

"I hear your concerns and your confidence," he said. "But I must stop you from wasting any more of your time, as I am sure you have duties to attend to in Rohan."

Éomer bristled at this remark; the hair on the back of his neck rose, and his fingers twitched into fists.

Denethor continued, "Unfortunately, I have no help to offer. You see, we are besieged on many fronts as well…"

"I am well aware," Éomer said, barely keeping himself from snapping. "We do not expect Gondor to save us. We ask only for a unified front; a strengthened alliance which would send a message to our shared enemies that we will not be so easily taken—"

The steward lifted his hand again, cutting off Éomer's words. "An alliance would bind _us_ to save _you_ ," he said coldly. "Which we cannot do. I must refuse, young marshal."

The last glow of desperate hope in Éomer's heart burst. He inclined his head and turned on his heel; he would not waste time begging. Anger, white-hot fury was building in his chest, and he shouldered through the polished metal door at the far end of the receiving hall with his armored shoulders, the crashing _bang_ bringing him some sick pleasure. He could only hope Denethor heard it.

Glancing down the east corridor, he saw that his men had left. They had assumed the audience would last longer. Well, they were all fools then, for thinking they could trust Gondor…

Éomer turned towards the west corridor, where his chamber was located, and stopped in his tracks. A tall young woman stood by the door to the hall, likely having just been missed by it in his violent wrath. She was dressed in a dark frock, which a silver circlet set in her black curls and a silk headrail hanging from it and down her back. Everything about her bespoke mourning. Some unknown emotion flickered in the depths of her icy blue eyes, and was swiftly quashed. Her gaze turned cool, and Éomer's shoulders stiffened at her scrutiny.

"I see your meeting with my uncle is over," she said, her elegant eyebrows lifting ever so slightly.

He was horrified. "Your _uncle_?" That snake had loyal family? It did not bear imagining. To think that this lady—attractive as he admitted finding her—was at the bosom of such a hateful man…

"Yes, my uncle. And am I to assume he has rejected your offer?"

Éomer scowled; any guilt at behaving so rudely towards a lady was overwhelmed by his anger. "That is none of your concern," he shot. "Does your uncle know you have a habit of listening at doors for gossip?"

The woman lifted her chin, fearlessly meeting his challenge and his gaze. "I do not have to eavesdrop to know the outcome," she said coldly. "Your manner betrays that well enough."

"My manner and my offer are none of your business either, now that I think on it," Éomer said, and tapped the side of his head with a great deal of derision.

"That sounds just the thing a _Northman_ would say," the woman snapped, all pretense of control gone. Her fists were clenched at her side, and there was a sneer pulling at her lips. "It is no wonder Denethor rejected you; you are nothing but a crude fool, sir."

At another time, another place—anytime but following such a disastrous interview; anywhere but gloomy Minas Tirith—Éomer may have softened his temper. But to be so rudely criticized by a woman whom he did not know, nor had any wish to, was beyond enough. The fire now surging through his veins had nothing to do with the bright flush in her cheeks and everything to do with her spite, he swore to himself.

"Better a crude fool than a well-dressed snake," he spat. "Do you harass everyone who has an audience with Denethor? Do you wait outside and strike at the weak? Or is it only the _Northmen_?"

"Only those who deserve it." She tossed her hair over her shoulder in vexation, revealing a tantalizingly creamy neck. Éomer clenched his jaw. "If you truly thought that Denethor was your ally—" The lady stopped, and snapped her mouth shut. A brief hesitation dimmed the light in her eyes.

Éomer saw a chance and took it with terrible glee. "Your uncle must be proud of you," he drawled. "You are just like him."

The pink flush in her cheeks turned ruddy, and he nearly faltered as he thought fiery sparks might fly from her eyes. But he must have imagined it, for she recovered with icy control; her face, now drained of color, was very pale. She flexed her fingers, forcing them to relax as she clasped them in front of her.

"Let me pass," she said in a horribly soft voice.

"Oh! Are you to see your uncle? Of course, my lady, of course…" Éomer made a grandiose, mocking bow, regarding her sardonically as he moved to allow her access to the door. She did not look at him again as she swept by; a flowery scent shifted the air by him, and his mind muddled for a half-second. Then she was through the door, slamming it so hard behind her that it sprung back open.

Éomer was not happy. Now that the woman was gone, he wondered at himself: why had he felt compelled to such rudeness? She had hardly deserved it...he had started it; at least he thought he did...he could barely think straight anymore.

Before turning to leave, he stepped forward to the half-open door, peering into the massive chamber and towards the dais at the far end of the hall. The woman was sitting by her uncle's feet, her hand on his, which lay on the armrest. The flow of her spread gown and trail of her headdress made an uncommonly pretty picture… Éomer shook himself. She was speaking very fast and quietly; he could not make out the words.

But he could guess.

Éomer let out a noise of disgust and stomped away, unable to bear the sight at all.


	2. Chapter 2

_3019 TA, Minas Tirith_

The great feasting hall at Minas Tirith was so wreathed in glittering lights and bright colors that Éomer hardly recognized it. All signs of siege and war had been removed, though he knew there was still much rebuilding to do. But after so many weeks of fighting and death, a night of wholesome joy was a glorious dream, even if it was a mere frontage. And despite the strange part he found himself playing as the newly crowned King of the Mark, Éomer was enjoying the company of his friends, both old and new.

If only Éowyn had been well enough to attend! Her absence was his only allowed unhappiness. She would have liked the dancing.

Amrothos, perhaps the most exuberant personality Éomer had ever come across, seemed to have made himself Éomer's personal master of ceremonies. He took great care in introducing Éomer to various members of the Gondorian nobility (and their daughters), Swan Knights whom he had known from childhood (and their daughters), and several elusive rangers (and their daughters or sisters, as the case might be). Éomer could not help but be amused at this; his initial thought was that Amrothos was seeking to find an eligible mate for Éomer, but after a half-hour of this routine, he began to suspect that Amrothos's motives were purely selfish. The only introduction which may have suspended that belief was when Amrothos declared that Éomer simply _must_ meet his sister.

"Now, you may hold the impression that _I_ inherited all of my father's valor in war," Amrothos said, leading Éomer through the crush of bodies. "And not without reason, I must say. However, even _I_ never envied Lothíriel her duty…"

This intrigued Éomer more than he would have admitted. The thought of a daughter of Imrahil contributing to the war, in whatever way (though he doubted this Lothíriel went to such extremes as his own sister), appealed greatly to him. Imrahil was, after all, one of the most honorable men he knew. Surely his daughter would exemplify those qualities herself—

He stopped dead in his tracks. The people in front of them had shifted, likely to accommodate the wild dancing, and the path to where Amrothos was leading him was clear. Straight ahead, standing alone by a pillar and looking across the crowd with an unreadable expression, was the vile woman he remembered as Denethor's niece.

Of course. How had he not made the connection before? He had known of Imrahil's relation, albeit by marriage, to the late steward. He knew, even before Amrothos's praise, that Imrahil had a daughter. He had also even had the certainty that Imrahil's family was Denethor's only kin apart from his own sons. That would leave only one woman as Denethor's niece, and as Éomer had thought of her—his puppet.

"She truly had the worst time of all of us," Amrothos said over his shoulder, apparently blind to Éomer's discomfort. Éomer forced his legs to work again. "Old Uncle Denny never knew my father had a spy right under his nose...Lothíriel played her part very well."

A thousand questions coursed through Éomer's mind and came up short. He was standing in front of the woman he had met two long years ago, and a dredging bit of leftover anger was prickling at his skin as he watched her. At least, he thought it was anger. She was taller than he remembered, though her thick black hair was the same. No longer clad in dreary black, Lothíriel wore a pale blue gown with a sparkling surcoat of silver. A tall tiara rested on her head, holding in place a silky white headrail. Her head turned slowly to regard them, as if she were reluctant to be drawn from her private musings; her blue eyes sparkling with warmth and—

 _Warmth_?

But it was only there for half a moment. As soon as she saw Éomer (she barely spared Amrothos a glance), her face paled and her fingers tightened upon a lacy fan, which had stilled. Éomer's jaw clenched, and she lifted her chin as she met his gaze.

"Sister, I have brought you the King of Rohan," Amrothos said, oblivious to the undercurrents. "Therefore I must be your favorite brother, as he is in such high demand. Éomer, this is Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, Princess of the Realm etc., and easily one of the most important war heroes in this hall."

Éomer was barely listening. Only a few words broke through his muddled haze, and spluttered, he asked, "War hero? _Her_?"

Lothíriel's pale face reddened.

"Oh, yes! Do not let her innocent appearance deceive you," Amrothos continued cheerily. "She spied in Denethor's house for—four years, I believe it was? How old were you, Lothíriel? Fifteen? Anyway; her loyalty to Denethor had to be complete. She was very clever, training pigeons to carry messages—out of Uncle's own house—to my father about what Denethor was or was not doing, so that Father could in turn send messages out to various captains to strengthen our defenses. A terrible, risky duty to be sure; but she succeeded so well that—"

"Amrothos." Lothíriel's voice, quiet as it was, carried enough authority to pause her brother's spiel. "The King knows how well I succeeded, I think."

Now at last Amrothos looked between them, brows creased as he tried to understand his sister's meaning. Éomer, still scrutinizing Lothíriel, paid him no attention. And Lothíriel lifted her fan to conceal part of her face, at last looking away.

He was baffled. His conception of the woman who had nearly bitten his head off had nearly nothing in common with this princess—apart from that they shared the same alluring beauty. Éomer swallowed as soon as the impulsive thought surfaced, and then quashed it entirely.

"You know, er—I think I see someone—wants to speak to me—" Amrothos waved his arm about vaguely, creeping slowly away from them. "Sorry to leave so suddenly, but—" The remainder of his words were lost, for he disappeared behind a gaggle of women wearing tall, feathery headdresses. The coward.

Éomer cleared his throat, the crush of the crowd pushing him towards Lothíriel. She backed away until she was pressed against the marble column, and she regarded him warily.

"I should apologize," he said, trying to speak quietly but the noise around them making it rather difficult. "I treated you badly, which I should not have, friend or foe. I hope you will forgive me."

Lothíriel was twisting her fan in her hands, though her features were perfectly cool. "I accept the apology, my lord."

No return apology was forthcoming, though he waited patiently for it. Irritation made Éomer shift his weight. "May I ask, Lady—I have often wondered—what exactly you reported to your uncle about me."

Her brows tilted slightly, and he felt foolish. The mass of bodies was closing in, and being distracted Éomer was nudged forward, almost losing his balance. He put a hand on the marble pillar above Lothíriel's head to keep himself from falling into her. She flushed a deeper pink, glancing around them before speaking again..

"I only told him what he wished to hear," she said. "Speaking his own thoughts and prejudices back to him was always a sure way to strengthen his trust in me. If you must know, I told Denethor that he was right to ignore your request. I said that the men of the Mark were faithless and sure to fall." She spoke with no hesitation, though there was a pride, a firmness to the set of her mouth which told Éomer, " _I did what I had to. I believe I did rightly. I cannot regret it."_

"Of course it was all a lie," Lothíriel added, touching her neck self-consciously. "I told my father that the Rohirrim could be trusted to stand with Gondor against the enemy, if that is any comfort."

"To keep Denethor's ear, I am sure you were forced to tell untruths often," Éomer said.

"Indeed I was," she said, her voice hardening. "I did what I had to in order to protect my people." With an angry _snap_ , her fan flew open, and she began to fan herself rather violently. Éomer was feeling warm, too; really, there were too many people to be considered reasonable… "I do not suppose your position ever required blatant fraud," Lothíriel added as she glowered up at him. "It is easy to fault a person when one does not know the deadly peril of the other."

"I said no such thing." They were near enough now that they could speak in relative privacy underneath the noise; he could see every lash on her eyes and the moisture on her lips as she licked them, perhaps in agitation. He continued sharply, "I offered an apology, that is all. But you are right; I have never spoken anything but the truth. Even when my honesty endangered my freedom and life, I did not lie."

"How very nice for you," Lothíriel said coolly. "I bow down to your superior righteousness."

"I do not appreciate being mocked."

"And I do not appreciate your determination to hate me. I lost as much in the war as you."

They glared at each other in mutual annoyance—there was nothing else to say. Éomer did not know what had come over him, why he was needling this woman in such a way. Certainly her exasperation was bringing him no pleasure. He let out a deep breath, which he had not realized he had been holding.

"My apologies once more, Lady," he said, clenching his fist on the pillar but keeping his tone polite. "My behavior has been uncivil."

Lothíriel inclined her head slightly, and then her gaze shifted away. Suddenly her eyes looked tired, immeasurably tired… A surge of guilt and regret made Éomer's stomach roll. Impulsively, he reached out to take her empty hand in his, and lifted it to his lips. It was cold, and he rubbed his thumb along her knuckles before releasing it. Her pretty eyes widened with shock at his boldness, but then they narrowed. She clasped her hands around her fan awkwardly.

"I am sorry," he said, feeling stupid.

"Good night, my lord." Lothíriel's voice was formal. "It was certainly interesting to meet you again.

Éomer detected no lie, no irony. He straightened and bowed, accepting the dismissal, and shouldered through the crowd, leaving the princess alone.

* * *

 _There seems to be some confusion/speculation of how long this story is meant to be. I'll tell you straight out: seven chapters. Ok? Ok good. Let me know what you think! (of the story, not the length; I'm afraid the length is pretty non-negotiable at this point, ha, ha)_


	3. Chapter 3

_3019 TA, Minas Tirith_

Éomer drummed his fingers on Aragorn's oaken table. He was early to the morning council; the feasting and dancing had continued nearly until dawn, and most people were likely still abed. He himself had left the hall after his conversation with Lothíriel, feeling too unsettled and unsure of himself to remain and enjoy himself. A sleepless night had followed, and so he was feeling both bizarrely awake and bone-weary as he had arrived at the council chamber.

He had no idea what to think of the princess. His first impression, two years ago, was of a cold, treacherous, unkind woman. But evidently she had been deeply entrenched in her uncle's court to spy for her father… Imrahil he trusted, that much was sure. And the woman he met last night had none of the qualities he remembered, except for her quickness and willingness to speak plainly, neither of which he considered faults. Éomer even remembered her eyes sparkling with warmth and pleasure before she had seen him…

He did not like the thought that _he_ took away any of her happiness.

Voices began to sound from the corridor, all muffled and low, and soon several people began to enter into the chamber. Imrahil was first, looking no worse for the long night, followed by his sons, who appeared the exact opposite. Amrothos sat down heavily by Éomer, rubbing his temples.

" _Must...learn...control…_ " Amrothos mumbled; at least, that is what Éomer imagined he heard. Amrothos's black mop of hair was damp, as if he had been woken by a bucket of water. This, of course, amused Éomer greatly, which he hid as he looked away.

Several other nobles also entered. Many were older, and for that seemed better prepared for the council. Éomer knew none of them by name though some by sight, and did his best to appear as a king should; wise and venerable.

At last, several minutes later, Aragorn entered and the low hum of conversation in the chamber ceased. Everyone stood—Éomer included, though out of politeness rather than duty—and his throat went dry as he saw Lothíriel upon the king's arm. He heard a mutter from one of the older men.

Her chin was lifted proudly into the air and her eyes level as Aragorn led her to the chair on his left hand. Éomer could not help but stare along with everyone else, despite the nagging in the back of his mind that they were bordering on discourtesy. She wore a simply cut gown of pale-blue, split sleeves revealing her bare arms and her hair falling in curls down her back. Even if she had not been the only woman in the room, she would be difficult to disregard.

Aragorn waved his hand, and everyone resumed their seats—apart from one man with greying hair, who was gazing at the princess dispassionately, his lips white with fury.

"Sire, I must object to this intrusion," he said. "This woman should not have a place on the council. She is nothing more than a leftover mark of Denethor's cruelty and mishandling of affairs."

"Princess Lothíriel is here at my request," Aragorn said. His tone was mild, but it carried into every corner of the room. "That you believe her an enemy is proof that she has served us well. Perhaps some of you are not aware of the part she played in the war."

The dissenting man sat heavily, though he still wore a sour expression.

"She took a place in the steward's house at great personal risk, taking a secret oath to serve Gondor as a spy in her uncle's house." Aragorn's eyes were travelling along the members of the council. "She was forced to renounce her father and pretend to Denethor that she shared his vision and sought his protection. Having successfully gained Denethor's confidence, Lothíriel provided many timely reports and warnings which saved the lives of men of Gondor. Perhaps you, Lord Hirgon—" Here the king's eyes pierced a man with closely-cropped grey hair. "—of the danger your sons were in as part of the garrison at Osgiliath in last summer. That they would have been overrun by the vanguard of orcs, had reinforcements not arrived from Dol Amroth."

The man, Lord Hirgon, was nodding along.

"You may thank the princess for that. Denethor was not going to send reinforcements, but Lothíriel's timely message to her father saved the garrison."

Silence.

Aragorn continued, " If you require further specifics, you may ask my steward or Prince Imrahil. Lothíriel has my full trust." The words were spoken with finality. No one spoke. Further fazed by Aragorn's endorsements, Éomer glanced at Lothíriel, further fazed by Aragorn's endorsement, but she was looking determinedly away.

"If I may speak?" she asked quietly. Aragorn inclined his head, and she took a breath, lifting her eyes. "I understand that many people—perhaps nearly everyone in the city—distrusts me. I knew the risk before I began to spy for my father, that if the enemy was defeated, I would still be answerable for my offenses. I am prepared to step down from the council, if it will ensure better unity."

"There is no need to be a martyr, daughter," Imrahil said, his voice booming over his eldest son's mutters on behalf of his sister. "You have the trust of the king, and me besides." Éomer saw a small smile on the prince's face as he continued, "Nothing will return your reputation to that which you deserve better than loyal, public service to King Elessar."

"I agree," Aragorn said. "And we need your insight, princess. You know the existing state of affairs in the citadel better than anyone else."

Éomer imagined Lothíriel felt somewhat taken aback at this; she paused, blinking before answering, "Thank you, Father; King Elessar. I wish to do my part."

His heart surged with an unknown but intense emotion. Injustice? Relief? Without realizing it, the last dregs of doubt he had for her had melted away. She ought not to be removed from her birthright to be a member of the King's council, simply because her service for Gondor had been so thorough that many viewed her with suspicion. By logical extension he could not hold their initial meeting against her; she had only been acting a part for her uncle, after all . . . She knew it, too, even if Éomer had arrived at that conclusion rather late.

"That is settled, then," Aragorn said. "Let us continue with the agenda. Are there any issues which . . ."

* * *

Éomer departed Minas Tirith with his sister and the remaining soldiers a fortnight later. A great deal had been accomplished in renewing alliances and trade networks, as well as betrothing Éowyn to Denethor's son. Despite his initial misgivings of any offspring of the late steward, Éomer had found Faramir both sensible and kind. He could not, even with good intentions, have denied his sister.

But these musings were far from his mind that morning. As he rode from the citadel on horseback, the feeling of being watched had crept upon him. Éomer turned his face upwards, blinking in the bright sun. A familiar figure retreated hastily from a high window, and his discomfort increased. What reason would Lothíriel have for watching his leavetaking? Did she not feel well rid of him and their disagreements?

These agonizing considerations, of the princess and what he thought of her, stayed with Éomer during the entirety of his journey back to Edoras. Indeed, it seemed to have buried a seed in his mind, so that every so often it would resurface, surging through his veins and consciousness with intensity. So he buried himself in work. The mantle of kingship was not an easy one, and rebuilding a torn nation difficult at best. He succeeded reasonably well most often, but when the sudden memory of Princess Lothíriel resurfaced, he brooded for many days afterwards.

He almost dreaded returning to Minas Tirith. Were it not a necessity, he may have hidden in Edoras indefinitely. But duty took his back sooner than he was prepared, and within weeks he was farewelling Eowyn on the steps of Meduseld to depart south once more.

It seemed the nearer he was to Minas Tirith, the miles having mysteriously flown by in his trepidation, the more Lothíriel took over his senses. Éomer woke thinking of her, he rode all day thinking of her, he thought of her as he ate and as he lay in his bedroll during the nights. He imagined their first meeting (with some nausea), the night at the ball (with great confusion), and the council (more confusion). He considered how she might receive him now, and if he could keep his temper, or whether he would be able to form a coherent sentence at all.

The only comfort to his frantically thudding heart as they rode through the circle gates upwards to the citadel was that he was not likely to see her until the following day at the earliest, and possibly even later than that. Éomer would have time to compose himself.

The maid who directed him to his guest chambers was clearly ill at ease his presence, though he could not imagine why. He gave her his friendliest smile, but she only stuttered more. His interpretation of her mumblings was that his chamber was located in the east corridor and the second door on the left. Slinging his saddlebags over his shoulders, having left his horse in the care of his squire, Éomer whistled a tuneless song to relieve his tension.

To his surprise the door was cracked open slightly. He eased it wider, but the sight of a body through a small crack gave him pause. A person, in his chamber? And not any ordinary person, either: he recognized her profile at once. The irony was not lost on him: the woman whom he had hoped not to see until he had oriented himself was the very first one he saw.

She was sitting in a window seat, engrossed in a book and oblivious to his intrusion. She was more relaxed than he had ever seen her; her face was calm and her movements as she turned a page were unhurried and graceful. Was she smiling? It was too peaceful a sight to interrupt.

It was then and there, in that empty corridor, as he gazed into a chamber at the princess like a veritable degenerate, that an abrupt and terrifying thought took hold of him. Did he...had he developed some sort of attachment to her? Would that explain his dreaming of her? His inability to think of aught else when her face was at the forefront of his mind?

Surely not!

Then again…

Éomer closed the door as gently as he could and then knocked upon it softly. He heard the thud of a book closing, and a mild command, "Enter."

Her eyes betrayed nothing at the sight of him, and she stood, holding her book in front of her. "Good afternoon, my lord," Lothíriel said. "May I ask of your need?"

His need? Oh yes. "I was directed to this room as my guest chamber," Éomer said, and immediately felt foolish. Acting a dunce in front of a woman he suspected himself of loving was not, he thought, particularly wise. But she smiled at him, and in her brightness and beauty he forgot everything else, even the self-consciousness of his own travel grime.

"You are staying in the west wing, my lord," she said. "This is the east. I will guide you, if you like."

He certainly did like. "Thank you, Lady." He bowed his head. "I apologize for the intrusion."

"It is of no matter." Lothíriel placed her book on a low table and approached him at the door. He was struck by the forthrightness of her gaze, as well as the lack of annoyance in it. Had she forgiven him their spats? "You may wonder why I have not joined my father in his house," she said, and closing the door behind her, she began to walk with him back the way he had come.

"Er—" Truthfully he had not thought of it at all.

"The queen has asked that I stay on, to support her as she accustomed herself to her new duties," Lothíriel said. Éomer was not watching where they were going; her face was too appealing to look away. She glanced at him, and smiled. "My years in Denethor's house have profited in that way, then."

"More than that," Éomer's tongue was feeling tied. "From what I have heard, at least."

She inclined her head, saying nothing more.

"Have—have you been well?" He could have kicked himself. Surely there was a less clumsy way to speak to her!

"I have been quite well. And you?"

Éomer could not lie, not with the memory of their conversation in the spring still so potent. "It has been difficult," he admitted.

"I would be surprised if it were not," Lothíriel clasped her hands in front of her, looking ahead with a musing, almost regretful expression. "A steep learning curve at best. I—I never expressed to you my condolences for both your cousin and your uncle. I am sorry."

"'S alright."

"No, it was very remiss of me. I would have…" Her voice trailed off, and Éomer was both surprised and curious to see a tinge of pink in her cheeks.

"There were too many losses, too quickly," he said, trying to ease her discomfort. "It is the way of war. I do not fault you."

She had stopped in front of a similar wooden door, and Éomer realized they must have arrived. This wing appeared no different than the east, apart from the blinding sun from a window at the end. Lothíriel was fingering her loose curls, looking down at the floor with uncharacteristic gawkiness.

"Thank you." Éomer stepped closer to her, and her eyes rose to meet his. "For showing me the way, that is."

A flitting smile. "You are welcome, my lord."

The ensuing silence was both heavy and tense. He caught his breath, taking in the sight of her gloriously lit face, so near… Éomer picked up her hand, which felt cold in his own. He did not release it for several moments, unable to articulate his thoughts.

Lothíriel removed her hand with a tug, her expression overcome with discomfort. Before he could apologize, she had turned on her heel and hastened away. He watched her retreat with a sinking stomach until the trail of her frock had disappeared around a corner.

Well, at least they had not quarrelled.


	4. Chapter 4

_3019 TA, Minas Tirith_

Éomer saw a great deal of the princess over the following days; it seemed that wherever his presence was required, so was hers. In councils, she sat at the right hand of the new queen, speaking rarely but with an authority that surprised him. Thought it should not have: she was an experienced politician, and it certainly showed in her words and demeanor. And at mealtimes, she sat alone in the feasting hall, and he studied her covertly as often as he was able.

It was not that Lothíriel simply kept to herself during most hours of the days and evenings. She seemed to Éomer to have an aura of solitude, a forbidding state of feeling and mind that seemed to ward off most people. She was kept busy on behalf of the queen, but he began to believe that had she a choice, she would rid herself of her position entirely.

Was it possible she still faced discrimination for her role in the war? Could it be that she remained untrusted, and the burden of being so outcast from her fellows brought about her loneliness?

It could not be. Éomer saw the respect that the council members now held for her. She had the endorsement of many of the most powerful people in Gondor, and it had clearly done its job. He did not witness a single case of resentment towards her. Certainly he harbored none himself.

His suspicion that he had well and truly fallen in love with her remained. In fact, Éomer rather thought it intensified, until it was no longer a suspicion but an actuality, and not one full day after meeting Lothíriel again he knew his heart was hers. How, exactly, this came to be he did not know and did not believe that he would ever learn. But his heart cried out for her presence, her voice, and so he bent his attention and efforts towards Lothíriel with all the strength of mind he could muster.

On the second day, Éomer began to sit in the empty seat beside her at the noon meal. If she thought it odd, she did not comment on it at all. But she smiled at him, appearing perfectly welcoming.

"Good day, my lord," she said. "Are you finding Amrothos's company too much today?"

"As always," he said, pulling a woeful face. "All he wishes to speak of is women. A dull topic, to be precise!"

Lothíriel's brows lifted, clearly unimpressed, and a horrible feeling stole over Éomer. How could he have said something so stupid?

"To speak _to_ a woman is a different matter entirely!" he hastened to say. "Amrothos merely extolls the virtue of one or another, and not in a way he would dare admit to either. A demeaning habit, I think. I personally find the company of women to be far above that of most men."

"Do you?" Lothíriel asked. Her brilliantly blue eyes were questioning, curious.

"Indeed!"

"Hmm."

It was at this point in the conversation that luncheon was served to them. They were sitting at the far end of a feasting table, with nearly all the other attendees at the front, surrounding Aragorn and Arwen. Éomer did not regret missing that one bit, despite feeling like a fool. Partaking of flatbread, sliced meats and cheeses, and summer fruits, he dared to ask the lady about the city where she was raised.

A soft, wistful light filled her eyes. Her voice was quiet as she spoke of the rushing roar of the seas, at times soothing and during sea storms terrifying, the beauty of the dangerous cliffs the palace was built on, the veined white marble of her home that would always remind her of it. The citadel in Minas Tirith, she explained, had been built of imported marble from the cliffs on which Dol Amroth stood.

Such a topic may have been boring to Éomer at any other time, but he was fascinated by the speaker. He watched her intently, asking questions and encouraging her to continue on. Her lovely voice, describing the silk markets of the city and the spring festivals of Ulmo which were full of music and song, was like an enchantment.

"Do not stop," he pleaded some time later, as she paused to take a drink of water. Lothíriel smiled benignly, setting her goblet back down.

"I must eat, my lord," she said. "I have filled your ears with enough nonsense, I think. Perhaps you can return the favor."

Éomer was nonplussed. It took him a moment to compose his thoughts well enough to express; telling this woman of his home seemed too daunting a task. What if she did not like his telling? He did his best, and it was surprisingly easy, after his initial hesitation, to illustrate the beauty of his homeland: the tall green grasses during the summer, snow-capped mountains, the stirring beauty in the sound of an eored galloping across the plains,the taste of harvest mead…

Lothíriel's gaze had not left his face, even as she ate slowly. There was a bright, unfeigned interest in her eyes. He felt a flush of embarrassment coming on, and sternly repressed it with all his strength.

"It sounds lovely," she said when he finished, and there was a yearning smile on her face. "I would love to see the Mark myself."

"Perhaps one day you can," Éomer said boldly. Immediately he regretted it, for she lowered her eyes, somehow diminished in her mood. But how could it be such a bad thing, that she visit his home? There were no rules against state visits—indeed, they were rather encouraged. The words to express this lodged in his throat, however, which was well: the meal had ended.

"Thank you for your company, my lord," Lothíriel seemed to steel herself as they stood as one, looking up at him with her expression an impenetrable mask.

"Nay, I must thank you." Éomer's hand twitched; the temptation to reach across the table and pick up her hand nearly overwhelming.

Her head tilted slightly to the side. "Good day, my lord."

"Good day, Lady."

And she was gone.

* * *

That night there was music and entertainment held in the king and queen's private apartments. A large sitting room—easily the size of Meduseld's feasting hall—was filled with their closest friends. This naturally included Lothíriel, and Éomer wasted no time upon entering the sitting room before searching for her among the crowd. Luck was with him: she was immediately visible at a card table, engaged in a match with Amrothos, Aragorn and Arwen. There appeared be an argument between Lothíriel and her brother, or at least a one-sided one. He seemed to be censuring her, but her only response was a frosty, unapologetic look which Éomer could see from across the room. He grinned and walked towards them, Amrothos's words coming into earshot.

"Lower the stakes, Lothíriel, for Ulmo's sake! I haven't brought my entire fortune to gamble with!"

Her low response was too quiet to hear. Then a groan from her brother, and his frustrated hiss, "You are too competitive to be natural! I had forgotten never to play with you—"

Éomer interrupted then, intrigued but not put off by this apparent failing of the princess's. "Good evening!" he said cheerily to the table in general. There were three polite responses, and one glower. Amrothos's bad temper was not so easily resolved.

"We are almost finished, then perhaps you may convince Amrothos to give up his place," Aragorn said, his tone dry.

"I am out," Amrothos said crossly, throwing his cards down. "Lothíriel should be banned from playing altogether."

"But then who would wipe the board with us? Come now, she has not played _that_ ruthlessly…"

But Aragorn's appeal went unheard, and Amrothos scraped his chair back before stomping off. Lothíriel, who had remained cool and silent during this short but intense conversation, smiled at him in greeting. Éomer tried to ignore the painful thudding of his heart, and scooped up the trashed cards.

"He believes that our uncle taught me to cheat," she told him in an undertone, by way of explanation. "But really, he simply cannot stand losing so badly."

It was just the thing a competitive person _would_ say, Éomer reflected with amusement.

"Denethor was widely regarded as the most competent players of _l adan_ in the history of Gondor," Aragorn said. "Perhaps one day Lothíriel will teach us his secrets."

Lothíriel replied with a wry smile. The candlelight in the chamber was making her eyes sparkle, and the shadows threw her face into sinister relief. Éomer grew alarmed—competitive was probably too mild a word. "Perhaps," she said. "But not before I empty your pockets, my liege."

"I do not believe it should take much longer," Arwen said in her silvery voice. "Let us begin a new round for Éomer."

Gratified to not have to play with Amrothos's awful hand, Éomer agreed to this wholeheartedly. Lothíriel was somewhat disappointed, and said as she surrendered her cards to be shuffled, "I was going to win the vole, too! How terribly unfair!"

The king and queen teased Lothíriel good naturedly at this of her supposed arrogance, and Éomer, who had volunteered to deal, took a moment to study her covertly. She was more at ease trouncing her sovereign than he had ever seen her before; her mask of solitude absent. He could see a dimple flickering in her rosy cheek, and her hair was glinting beautifully down her back.

When he looked up once more to concentrate on dealing the cards, Éomer noticed Arwen's eyes on him, a sly smile on her face. He reddened, and she looked away.

Éomer lost spectacularly. There really had been no chance of winning; he was easily the worst player at the table. Lothíriel, of course, won the first five tricks with not a single sign of concern, and challenged for the vole without hesitation. This she also won with a great deal of complaining from the other players, but Éomer felt no trace of bitterness as she swept her winnings into a silk reticule with a smug grin. He had not thought her capable of such a thing, and he was forced to stifle several laughs over the course of the game. The princess took her card games _very_ seriously.

"Will you take pity on me, and teach me your trade?" he asked her over the clinking of her coins. "Though of course I could never truly rival such a master, I only wish to save my reputation somewhat."

"A reputation is a poor reason indeed to master a skill," Lothíriel said, though she was smiling. "For a sensible one, I could perhaps be convinced."

"Sensible?" Aragorn said, lifting his brows. "He will never have such a motive. I beg of you to disregard Éomer—and teach me instead!"

"Oh, certainly not! I must always have an upper hand with you, my lord, or I shall lose my pride completely. I will teach your wife, however." Lothíriel glanced at Arwen, and a significant look was exchanged, which caused Aragorn to chuckle.

"Very well then! Let us have another game. I want to recover some ground."

But there would be no recovering. Lothíriel shamed them all by winning a further three voles throughout the evening, in between games where she somehow prevented the _l adan_ of any winnings, even in those rounds where she won nothing herself. Éomer was too busy enjoying himself to play too mindfully; watching the princess trounce them all was hilarity in itself. Her cool demeanor made her a formidable opponent, and her shrewdness was disguised behind benign smiles. Eventually this spectacular playing brought about a crowd, and towards midnight Éomer gave up the last of his coins to the pool.

"If you do not allow me to win, I am out," he murmured to Lothíriel, who glanced at him evenly from above her cards. "And I would rather continue playing. Have mercy!"

"But if you are out, then another hapless person with full pockets may contribute," Lothíriel said, patting her now-bulging reticule. "And I have an urge to purchase a new horse." With the crowd around them, their conversation was heard, and a few began to laugh at her remarks.

"I can give you a horse!" Éomer said, nearly pleading. He had the impression that she was extremely pleased by his begging, even if it was partly pretend. "I only wish to leave tonight with a shred of dignity!"

She inclined her head but said nothing. He heard a snort from somewhere, and the clinking of exchanged coins. More than just the players were interested in this outcome, then. Aragorn was dealing the cards with a glint in his eyes. Arwen, as ever, was perfectly calm.

"Who will be the _l adan_?" Aragorn asked.

"I will," Lothíriel said. "Tumble the elect." There was no surprise in the room.

Aragorn flipped over the top card to reveal the elect. Éomer picked up his cards; his hand was not good.

"Bids," Aragorn said.

Arwen bid two, Éomer two, Lothíriel four and Aragorn three. There were murmurs from the crowd, from those who could see their cards. More coins were passed.

Arwen led. Lothíriel won the first trick, and then the second and third. Then Aragorn swept in and took the next trick. Éomer was feeling edgy; he had saved his highest elects for the last rounds, which may not have been the best idea... But luck was with him! Or perhaps Lothíriel, for he won the next trick by electing it, and leading the final round he won that one, too.

Lothíriel dealt next. The bids were tallied, and Aragorn led. He bid two, and won one. Arwen bid three, and won one. Lothíriel bid two and won both of them, as did Éomer.

There was definite laughter in their audience as Éomer took the final trick, but he was not paying attention. He was watching Lothíriel, and her dark, wry eyes that matched her smile.

By the final trick, Lothíriel was far ahead of the rest of them, though Éomer was in second place. It was certainly the best he had done yet, and the palms of his hands began to sweat as he studied his final hand.

Utter silence.

"Three," said Aragorn.

"Two," from Arwen.

"Four," Éomer said, with a definite sinking in his stomach. He had bid too high; but winning four was the only way he could win.

"Six." Lothíriel's bid was loud, which was well, for many people scoffed and murmured at this. Éomer's stomach sunk lower.

The first trick went to Lothíriel. And the second. Éomer was definitely sweating now; when had the room become so warm? Lothíriel led spades.

He had no spades! Éomer played an elect, and took the trick, his nervousness increasing.

"Ha!" he heard in his ear, making him jump. It was Amrothos, looking gleeful. "You've lost, Lothíriel!"

She did not deign a reply, though she did give him a quelling glance. Éomer lead the next trick, and took it. The crowd was growing excited, and he felt a clap on his shoulder. Amrothos, most likely. If Lothíriel was equally agitated, she did not show it. Éomer stole a glance at her: her eyes were shining.

And he took the final two tricks.

The room burst into shouts and laughter. There were many groans, too, from those who beg against him. But instead of triumph, Éomer was now unperturbed, meeting Lothíriel's gaze across the table.

"You let me win," he said. Aragorn and Arwen had stood to depart, bemoaning their losses but seeming no worse for it. Lothíriel's eyes were cool, unreadable, though he thought he saw a flicker of merriment in their depths.

"I need a horse."

He began to laugh.

It was certainly the climax of the party; soon after the guests began to depart. Amrothos had brought Éomer a cup of cool drink, which he appreciated, though he rather resented that Amrothos had not brought his sister the same. He passed it across the table to her without taking a drink, and stood to leave.

"Wait," she said.

They were now alone at the table; even Amrothos had left, still chuckling darkly. Éomer looked down at her, sitting by herself. Suddenly she seemed diminished, her face wary and biting her lip. She opened her mouth to speak, but then shut it. "Thank you," she said at last, touching the goblet with her fingers.

"Thank you for the game," he replied. "Good night, Lady."

Had Éomer seen her tormented expression before he turned away, he would not have left.


	5. Chapter 5

_3020 TA_

The following morning he was to lead the march to honor the men of Rohan that had sacrificed their lives in defense of Minas Tirith, especially Éomer's uncle. It was a dreary thought to begin his day, and despite feeling little inclined to talking, he sat beside Lothíriel at the morning meal.

"Good morning, my lord," she said, and the sight of her smile perked him up somewhat. She was dressed in a lovely sea-green frock, which he noticed brought out green flecks in her eyes. He stammered for moment, taken aback by her this barrage of beauty.

"Good morning," he managed to say. "Did—er...did you sleep well?"

Lothíriel's shoulders stiffened, though her smile remained. "Eventually," she said vaguely. "And you?"

"Er—" Éomer could not answer. He did not wish to answer truthfully, that he had lain awake thinking of her until past dawn.

She was nodding, as if knowing a measure of his disquiet. "It will be a mournful day," she said. "I do hope all goes well."

"Will you not join us on the road?"

"Nay, I cannot." Éomer hoped he was not mistaking her frown of regret. She continued, "I am needed here to oversee preparations for the feast tonight, as the queen will be riding with you."

He bit his tongue to prevent himself to speaking too plainly, too familiarly… _Fie on the feast, I want you with me._ Perhaps some of his emotion betrayed on his face, for Lothíriel's eyes grew sympathetic, and to his astonishment she reached across the table, as if to take his hand. He stared, and before she touched him her face shadowed, and her hand curled into a fist.

"I still wish to pay my respects," she said. "If you will allow me."

"Of course, Lady."

Lothíriel busied herself with eating her meal, and Éomer followed suit. The porridge was tasteless, and he decided it must have been due to his mood. The ache of missing his uncle and having to perform the terrible task of moving his body to Rohan was compounded by the ache of the princess's withdrawal from him. He did not understand her at all.

But he was left no time to brood on that for the remainder of the day. The hard ride through the hot summer sun made his mind sluggish, and the subsequent slow march back to the city disheartening beyond ken. It was a relief to reenter Aragorn's house at sunset, with the harshness of heat wearing off and a cool bath awaiting him so that he could prepare for the festivities.

Aragorn had suggested initially that they honer Theoden's memory with a solemn, simple meal, but Éomer had disagreed. His uncle would be pleased to know that he was remembered with joy rather than sorrow. There would be food, yes, but dancing as well and music.

To both his relief and pleasure, the feasting hall was decorated finely in colors of gold and green, with much light and the scent of flowers and ripe bodies. Already the stamping of the feet of dancers could be heard echoing through the hall, and laughter and chatter from those mingling. Hundreds of them! And for his uncle's memory. Éomer was staggered by the honor done for his uncle in the great, incomparable Merethrond, and a sudden thought made his stomach turn pleasantly and his heart to skip a beat.

Lothíriel had organized this.

Ignoring greetings called to him, Éomer shouldered through the crowd with some rudeness, intent on finding the princess. He had to. He did not know why; surely they could speak later, but he wanted to see her more than anything. At last, he saw her. Lothíriel stood by a tall lit candelabra which cast her face in a halo of light. Her eyes were anxious, roving over the crowd with her brows drawn together. Then she turned, and their eyes met. She paled, bit her lip as if to hide a smile, and turned away.

She had been looking for him.

Dressed in a regal green gown with a golden surcoat, her complexion was set off perfectly. Her green headrail, held in place by a sparkling crown, did not quite hide her lovely curls. She glorified his nation's colors better than any flag or banner, and his heart leapt.

Éomer hastened for her on trembling legs. His thoughts were muddled completely, and with no forethought of what he would say to her, he seized her hand, coming up close to her side. "I—" he began stupidly.

But Lothíriel interrupted him, speaking in a rush, as if uncomfortable. "Did your journey today pass smoothly?" she asked, and withdrew her hand from his.

"Yes," he said. "I suppose. I—" He missed her. But he could not say it. Not with the impenetrable wall she had placed between them. And between herself and everyone else, it seemed. Éomer swallowed, trying to compose himself. "The hall looks lovely. Never better, I think. My uncle would have liked it very much."

She smiled. "I am gratified to hear that. If you are pleased—that is enough for me."

Lothíriel had wished to please him? Éomer blinked, shaking his head slightly as he tried to order his thoughts, which had been spun out of control with hope.

"I hope you will enjoy the meal as well," she said, nodding towards long tables which lined the hall, laden with food. "We went for solely Rohirric food; it seemed the thing to do. It is rather unorthodox, to eat and dance and mingle all at once, but Éowyn explained that it is how it is done often in Rohan."

Éowyn had been in contact with Lothíriel. This brought a flush of pleasure to Éomer, and he grinned down at this princess, who amazed him in many ways. "Dare I hope that you arranged Rohirric dancing as well?"

She brightened at this. "Naturally! I must confess to loving Rohirric dancing most of all; our court instructor in Dol Amroth taught it well."

"I shall have to try your word," Éomer said, lifting his brows in mock speculation.

"Oh! I did not mean—" But Lothíriel broke into laughter, which spread pleasant tingles down Éomer's spine; had he heard her laugh before? He did not recall. She calmed herself at last, gazing up at him as she said, "It has been many years, my lord, since I had the chance. I am afraid that I shall be stepping on the toes of any who dare partner me."

"I dare," Éomer said boldly, and offered her his arm. Lothíriel hesitated; he saw several emotions in her eyes before she raised her hand to take his arm. She did not meet his eyes. He sensed some degree of nervousness from her. He really must put a stop to that.

As the musicians had already been playing, it was simple for them to join in the middle of the lively reel. Éomer whirled Lothíriel around and into his arms; despite herself, she was laughing again. And despite her fears, she did not step on his toes a single time.

The fast dances, though simple, made his blood rush. Or was that Lothíriel in his arms, with her sweet-smelling hair whipping around him as she spun? Perhaps the touch of her hands in his? Her open, abashed smiles filled the hall with more light than a thousand suns, and her laugh was more melodious than any music. Every part of her enchanted him, and he was desperate to be enchanted.

Éomer did not want for another partner, nor apparently did she. The night passed quickly, and they did not tire. If there were people watching them, whispering to each other of this shameless behavior, he did not notice nor care.

"I am departing tomorrow," he said aloud some hours later, without meaning to. He felt stupid even as they left his mouth, for Lothíriel's smile faded. Their dancing slowed and then ceased completely, though he kept a hold on her waist and hand. The other couples continued the reel around them, shouting and laughing with one another. Éomer and Lothíriel stood, riveted in the middle of the hall as they gazed at each other. She released him and wrung her hands together, and how dearly he wished he could take them back!

"I know," she said, looking at the floor. "But I will not think of it. Tonight…"

Éomer could fill in the remainder of her sentence, he thought. Tonight would be all they had. Tonight was a bittersweet parting. Tonight, she would never forget.

"...you belong to me. I have only had such a friendship once before, and it ended in tragedy. And so your kindness is enough, for now."

His heart stopped.

Lothíriel raised her eyes once more, her smile both sweet and sad as she curtseyed. "Thank you for the evening, my lord. I will treasure the memory always."

 _Stop! Do not go!_ He tried to shout, but it was too late, and she disappeared between the dancers. An abrupt parting, he thought crossly; too abrupt. What was she thinking to leave so quickly? Had she really only thought of him as kind? What did she mean, that it was enough for now?

He had not had the chance to ask.


	6. Chapter 6

It was a harsh journey, in more ways than one. Éomer carried his uncle's body and his heavy heart back to Rohan, accompanied by many friends from Gondor but not the one he wished for most of all. The company of Lothíriel's brothers and father intensified the pain of being parted from her.

He made arrangements to send a horse back to Minas Tirith with Imrahil; the mare had a deep black coat, almost blue, with intelligent, doleful eyes. She reminded him of his princess, and for that reason he chose her to send to Lothíriel—the sight of the horse made his heartache worsen.

And for those difficulties he received a brief, formal letter from Lothíriel thanking him for his generosity, for which she would not have held him to account anyway. It invited no response, however, and Éomer was left brooding through the coming of autumn and winter. As much as he tried not to think of her, he utterly failed. The memory of the wonderful night they had spent dancing was particularly bittersweet.

He was left questioning himself. Was he unworthy of her affections? Well, certainly, but that was not the right question. Did _she_ consider him unworthy of her? It was particularly painful to consider, and he hoped that it was not the barrier between them. Whyever that barrier was even there, he did not know. He had tried so very hard to befriend Lothíriel, and while to some extent he felt certain he had succeeded, she was resistant, almost unknowable. Although she had called him friend, how well did he really know her?

Aragorn wrote sometime during midwinter, asking for Éomer's presence in Minas Tirith at the beginning of spring. He agreed, of course; his sister's wedding preparations had taken over Meduseld and he would appreciate a break from the chaos. However, the mere thought of seeing Lothíriel again made him feel slightly ill. In his miserable musings, he had almost not expected to. But of course they would not be parted forever: they had lives too closely intertwined through friends and duties to be strangers.

Éomer practiced repressing his feelings in the weeks leading up to his journey to Gondor and through the entirety of the journey itself. He told himself that Lothíriel did not return his sentiments and that she never would. She was too reserved in her feelings. They would never reconcile, even if on the off chance she did care for him.

Still, in spite of all this, he was significantly disappointed to learn upon arriving at Aragorn's house that Lothíriel was no longer in residence. The Queen was the one who so graciously informed him of this, after he "accidently" lost himself in the east wing of the house.

"Good day, Éomer of Rohan," Arwen said. Éomer bowed, feeling his ears turn red, embarrassed at being caught. He had always had the uncanny sense that Arwen could—if not read his thoughts per se—know precisely what he was feeling. She was smiling as he lifted his head, and he felt as though this was a confirmation.

"Good day, my lady," he said quickly. "I—I was lost."

"Your chambers are in the west wing," she said gently. "The same you were given last summer."

"Of course." Éomer's sense of stupidity was increasing exponentially. The Queen paused, and then said,

"Éomer, if I may? Princess Lothíriel has returned to her father's house; you will find her there."

"I—" he began to deny any knowledge of what she spoke of, but it was no use. "Thank you," Éomer finished lamely.

Arwen was smiling. "I will tell Estel to expect you later."

Finding the path to Imrahil's house in the Sixth Circle, which was a chilly ten minute walk from the citadel, was easier than Éomer expected. He had visited there once before, and excitement hastened his steps. A guard opened the door to the courtyard for him, and he stepped through, blinking at the incomprehensible sight before him.

Lothíriel, sweet though ever-distant Lothíriel, was dressed in warm furs and chasing after— _chickens_. She was not the only one, either; she was joined by several small children, and the entire group was giggling hysterically.

"I got one!" said a young boy, holding up a squalling red hen. "I'll put 'er back in the 'enhouse!"

Lothíriel was in the midst of trapping (or tripping over) a black rooster in her skirts. It tried to nip at her hand, but she clutched it by its middle, pinning its wings to its side. There were feathers everywhere, even to the gate where Éomer was standing, and after staring at the scene for a few moments, he rushed forward, capturing a speckled, squawking hen.

Soon enough all the wayward chickens were back in their coop, which was in stables and rather too close to the courtyard to be considered sensible. The children, whom Éomer assumed were servants or the children of servants, were brightly flushed despite the cold, and once the task was complete they bounded off without looking back. Éomer shoved the last chicken into the henhouse, and Lothíriel pushed the door shut and bolted it.

"I think that no one will forget to lock the coop again anytime soon," she said, laughing, and glanced up at him. Then she startled, as if she had not recognized him before. "Oh! My lord!"

"Just Éomer will do," he said, resisting the urge to embrace her. He crossed his arms instead, and they began to walk back into the courtyard together. He continued, "And a good day to you!"

Lothíriel was beaming. The exercise had brought out a flush in her cheeks, and her eyes were bright though rimmed with circles of dark purple, as if she had not been sleeping well. "Thank you for your assistance, Just Éomer," she said. "I saw your cavalry ride in; I thought you would be at the citadel."

She had seen him! Though he had been disallowing himself hope, it rose in his chest as abruptly as a spring of fresh water. "I will be staying at the citadel, yes," Éomer told her, just keeping his voice from wavering. "But I have friends elsewhere whom I cannot forget."

She was silent at this, either unaware or unwilling to address the not-so-hidden meaning of his words. "It is kind of you to visit," Lothíriel said, and they stopped in the center of the courtyard, The sun was bright, illuminating her face and her lovely smile. "I was going to seek some fresh air in the city. Father is in the house with Erchirion and Amrothos; he will welcome you happily."

"I will accompany you, if you allow. Fresh air does sound quite nice."

Her eyebrows tilted upwards. Then, she said, "Did you not just travel here? Through...nature and all its fresh air?"

"Er—I need to stretch my legs. It has been a long day of riding."

If Lothíriel was as skeptical as she ought to be (and surely she was), Éomer knew she could call him out on it. But she only smiled and inclined her head towards the gate. "Shall we?"

"Indeed."

She directed him down a side street beneath the walls of Imrahil's house which he had not seen before. In fact, he soon lost their bearings entirely. Éomer knew little of Minas Tirith, and became increasingly aware of this as they wove through many alleyways and deserted paths between white stone houses. Some had boxes where grew the first of the spring flowers, though it was cold enough that all the wooden shutters were latched tightly, and stuffed with cloth to keep the drafts out.

"These are the best places to walk," Lothíriel said to break the silence, some time later. "Very few people can be found here, and so the air is fresher than the main roads."

"Very wise." Éomer glanced at her then, unable to resist taking in the sight of her. To his surprise, she was looking at the ground, her hands clenched tightly together.

"You have come on a rather bad day for me," she blurted. "I—I am sorry. I meant to walk alone, but I could not resist your easy company…"

"Nay, it is I that is sorry. I can turn back—" This was a mostly empty threat. Éomer could not have picked his way back without immense difficulty.

"It is not your fault!" Lothíriel said, and lifted her eyes to meet his. "It is only, well, very personal. I do not wish to burden you with my troubles; suffice to say that this is the only week of the year I allow myself to grieve."

"Grieve? For what? Whom?" He could have slapped himself as soon as the words were out; had she not just said it was personal? And here he was prying!

"I suppose my brothers did not inform you." Her voice was growing quieter, and despite that this particular part of the city was nearly empty, he moved his steps closer to her to hear her whisper, "I—I was betrothed, once."

Éomer nearly stopped walking in surprise, and then hurried to catch up with her. She had lowered her head again, away from him. "The war?" he asked.

"Yes."

Lothíriel did not need to explain further for him to understand. He stiffened, a coursing of emotion taking over: sympathy for the princess, jealousy of her lover, grief for another life ended too soon, and confusion that she had not mentioned it before.

"Actually," she said slowly, as if unsure whether to continue. "The day you visited Denethor long ago—I had received the news of Anardil's death not a week earlier. I could not tell you last spring—" Lothíriel ceased in her tracks, turning towards him. "It was too soon. Too raw. I wished to give you a full apology for my rudeness, but this part of it—" She shrugged, closing her eyes briefly. "I was terribly upset. I was angry at myself for not being at his side, at the steward for his carelessness; at you for seeking help for your country while our young men were dying." She met his gaze, proudly but with tears shimmering in her bright blue eyes. "You were the unlucky recipient of my self-hatred, my lord. I have overcome that, though it has taken many months. I can now offer my wholehearted and sincerest apologies."

Éomer, standing stock still and looking fixedly down at her, did not feel any apology was necessary. Her difficulties and feelings of nearly three years earlier were perfectly valid, he thought. Wrong, perhaps, but certainly understandable. "I, of course, accept your apology," he said.

Her smile was sad, and slowly turned to continue walking. He followed.

"Three years to the day since his death, and still I mourn," Lothíriel said softly. "Perhaps I will forever."

It was the last dashing of his hope that Éomer had been seeking. There would be no future with this princess, no matter the loyalty of his repressed affections. Strangely, even at her confession, he did not love her any less. He still thought her just as beautiful and endearing, if not more for her strength of spirit following such a tragedy.

"I thank you for your confidence," he said after several moments. "I appreciate that you trust me so."

Lothíriel glanced up wryly at him. "I consider you a friend, Éomer, which you would not be if I did not trust you."

She trusted him, at least, even if she did not love him.

"Let us turn back," she said. "It is growing late."

The sun was setting through the stone streets and whitewashed houses, turning everything dark and dim. By the time they reached Imrahil's house again, Éomer had to squint at Lothíriel to see her.

"Good evening, my lord!" Lothíriel said, and there was barely a trace of her former sadness in her smile. "Thank you for your company; I did not realize I would need it." Then she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek with her chilly lips. It astonished him more than the earlier revelation of her betrothal.

"Good night," he said dumbly, feeling his cheek burn as she rushed into the house. Éomer caught a final glimpse of her in the light which spilled from the open doors, and then it was shut. He shivered, alone in the courtyard.


	7. Chapter 7

The following night, after a day of councils and missing every opportunity to speak to Lothíriel, Éomer trudged back to his rooms with hopelessness weighing down his steps. He knew he had not mistaken her friendly affection, nor even her declared preference for his presence; why then had she not sought him out more diligently? It seemed that every time their gazes met, someone would begin some tedious conversation or he would be required elsewhere. There was much he wished to speak to her about: her unexplained words to him and of his own feelings . . . he could no longer conceal them from her.

With these disheartening thoughts, Éomer nearly gave a shout of surprise when he turned the corridor to where his chambers were located to see a figure rushing towards him. But he smothered it and stepped back, concealing himself in the shadows. He peeked around the corner, blinking in astonishment.

It was Lothíriel!

She had not seen him; in fact, he would have been surprised if she noticed anything at all; she was pacing and wringing her hands. Her breathing came in short, ragged gasps, and she glanced at the door to his rooms before hurrying on and doubling back. Her silver skirt swished behind her. Such a nervous display was beyond anything he had witnessed of Lothíriel; never had he seen such raw emotion from her. But despite his confusion, he was intrigued. What was she doing at his door?

"Ohhhh! Just do it!" she muttered to herself. At the next pass, she paused at his door and lifted a trembling fist to knock. Then she let out a strangled groan and shrunk back, burying her hand in her skirt. "Coward!" she cried. "Oh, I am an utter coward!" Lothíriel gave a whimper, very nearly a sob, and then turned again and ran away in the opposite direction.

Éomer waited a moment before continuing down the silent corridor, now much more slowly as he tried to understand the scene he had just witnessed. No immediate answer came to his mind, nor even during his night-long musings in his darkened chamber. But as the morning broke through the windows, his skin began to prickle with long-forgotten hope.

Did he dare hope her behavior was an indication of some sort of affection for him, beyond simple friendship?

It would not do merely to contemplate. He must discover the truth himself.

Fate seemed intent on keeping Lothíriel far from Éomer. He observed her from a distance at a variety of functions over the next several days, but she never betrayed anything other than her usual cool serenity. If she was suffering similarly to that night in the corridor, it was kept beneath the surface. And if her smiles for him across the council chamber were slightly forced, slightly sad—that only strengthened his resolution to speak plainly with her.

But again he was thwarted, twice approaching her only to watch her summoned by a servant for another purpose; the first instance she departed the dining hall in haste, without looking his direction. He could not possibly be offended by that. The second time he was only a few feet from her in a council chamber, about to sit in the empty chair next to the princess. Lothiriel had met his eyes, blinked, and then nearly jumped out of her seat as a page bent low to speak into her ear. Eomer paused, watching the flush in her cheeks as she looked away from him.

"Yes, of course; I will be there directly."

He heard her words to the page, and she stood, glancing at him almost apologetically, before turning to leave.

It was not until the final night of Éomer's stay in Minas Tirith that he thought he might have a chance. The farewell feast was being held in the king's private dining chamber rather than the large feasting hall. It was to be casual, meant more for everyone's enjoyment rather than as a formal gathering. With wine flowing freely and likely preventing anyone from paying too close attention, he was just desperate enough to somehow corner Lothíriel.

Whilst he was half-listening to a conversation between Amrothos and Erchirion, Éomer saw Lothíriel slip out of the room by a door he had not seen before. That would be his chance: she had left alone.

So as to not draw attention to himself, Éomer waited until a natural moment to extract himself from the brothers. But instead of retreating towards the refreshments to refill his wine, he left his goblet on a small table and strolled casually out the door. He did not look back; doing so would only make him look guilty.

Darkness swallowed him, and the fresh night air filled his lungs. The door led to a small landing, from which a stone staircase swept towards the gardens below. Very convenient from one's private living area, Éomer thought wryly.

He descended quickly, determined to find the princess before their absence was noticed. The neatly trimmed hedgerows were dim shapes in the darkness, but he found his way alone the pale stone pathways easily. Night insects were chipping, and he could hear the faraway rush of a fountain, one of many in the citadel's gardens. Éomer wandered, searching, for several minutes before he caught sight of a white silk skirt billowing some distance above his head in a slight breeze.

The princess was perched atop one of the tall stone walls which divided the gardens. Her face was turned towards the moon, which illuminated her features and made her glow; her hair was wrapped in a white silk and. Éomer caught his breath. He was foolish to dare, to even suggest to the princess that he cared for her...for what purpose would she ever want _him_?

Éomer walked forward, his sudden appearance startling Lothíriel. Her head turned sharply towards him, but her expression softened into hesitancy as she recognized him. "Was the party so tedious?" he asked, deciding that humor was likely the best way to start.

"Oh! Oh, not at all," she said with the hint of a smile. "I only wished for fresh air. It was becoming quite stuffy." Whether she was being completely honest or hedging his question, Éomer was not entirely sure. But he would wager the latter.

"May I join you?"

"You may."

The stone wall was in a state of semi-disrepair, and Éomer found it easy to climb the broken, jutting stones. Fortunately they held his weight, though he settled next to the princess with some trepidation. The wall creaked slightly underneath him. Lothíriel had turned her attention back to the half-moon, and a thousand thoughts welled up in Éomer's mind. It was terribly difficult to focus on merely one to which express to her; he did not know _how_ to tell her of his feelings, only that he should.

"I used to come here when I was a little girl," Lothíriel said suddenly. "Whenever I wished to escape my uncle and his insistence that I do some dull thing. He never found where I would hide." She glanced up at him, her small smile making his heart thud loudly. Could she not hear it? "I am impressed that you found me, my lord."

"Perhaps I have a better understanding of you than Denethor ever did."

She chuckled. "A low standard, to be sure."

"I admire that you stayed with him for so long, despite the difficulties," Éomer said. "I cannot imagine the bravery it took. It would have been easier to flee."

"Yes, it would have. But that is hardly the point."

He privately agreed, but he had no wish to speak of unhappy times. Rather, a better future. Yet, again, words failed him, and his throat felt as if it was swelling shut.

Lothíriel took a shuddering breath, and Éomer saw that her previous peaceful expression was now wavering, letting through a glimpse of the agonizing indecision he had seen outside his chambers several days earlier. "I misled you when I said that I left the gathering because I found it too stuffy," she said, not meeting his eyes. "Rather, its very representation was hurting my soul."

Éomer waited for her to continue, judging it wise not to interrupt. She seemed on the verge of a precipice; preparing to jump towards unknown depths below. She spread out her fingers on her knees, watching them with more interest than they deserved.

"You have become a very dear friend to me," Lothíriel murmured. "I dread your leaving again. I...I miss you, when you are in Rohan."

"I am glad to hear it," Éomer said, and picked up one of her hands, enclosing it in his own. "For you are also dear to me."

At last her eyes rose, shining brilliantly blue in the moonlight as she smiled. "Thank you," she said. "I have had so few friends that I cherish your words." For once, she did not remove her hand from him. In fact, he was rather so astonished that she had revealed so much of herself that he was at a loss for words. But evidently Lothíriel was not. "It—it is difficult to keep acquaintances when some people still believe one is loyal to the previous steward, and others still are afraid because of one's closeness to the king," she said. "It is...a state of never-ending loneliness."

Éomer tightened his grip on her hand, so as to still its trembling. She was biting her lip, her head tilted to the side; he wondered if she regretted speaking so frankly. Then she looked away again, and the wind ruffling the leaves of nearby trees nearly carried her next words away.

"I do not want to be alone anymore."

He sensed that if there would be a chance to kiss her tonight, this was the moment. But he also understood that if he went about it badly, she would not respond well. His Lothíriel was an intuitive woman.

Éomer pushed away the dark curls which had escaped her silken head wrap, his fingers brushing lightly against the soft skin of her cheeks, where a flush was beginning to spread. Lifting her chin, he saw a tumult of emotion in her darkened eyes: shyness, nerves, pleading, and deepest of all: guilt.

Guilt?

He had hesitated a moment too long. Lothíriel stiffened where she sat, leaning back from his touch and pulling her scarf forward to conceal her face.

"I have been gone too long," she said. "Father will be looking for me."

Éomer felt ill. He had botched it completely. Running his now-free fingers through his hair and likely messing it beyond redemption, he scooted forward before jumping down from the wall. It was further than he expected, and the landing jarred his bones. Disappointment was causing his heart to thump uncomfortably, but he could not leave her. He straightened his shoulders, trampling the flowerbeds as he turned to lift his hands towards her.

"Come on, then," Éomer said. "I will catch you. It is not a soft landing."

A thin, sad sort of smile played at her lips—the very lips he had failed to kiss, he thought bitterly—as she watched him below. "I have been alighting this wall for many years," Lothíriel said. "I know the distance perfectly."

His sense of foolishness increased.

She scooted forward on the wall, and then, eyeing him skeptically, launched herself forward. Éomer caught her deftly 'round the waist; she was not particularly heavy—and the swarming of her scent and the feel of her silken dress made his stomach tighten with pleasure. Her head covering had fallen out of place, and the moonlight shone silver on her black locks. Lothíriel still smiled, likely impressed that he had not been knocked over. Her face was near; tantalizingly so.

He was not going to lose this second chance. Definitely, definitely not.

In his haste and enthusiasm, he perhaps pressed his mouth against hers with a bit too much force. She was unprepared for the assault, and a whimper rose in her throat. Éomer released her slightly, though his hands were still clasped about her waist. Finally, he felt her lips and body yield to him.

Unable to resist, he tugged her headscarf off completely; the full weight of her tumbling curls sent wave after wave of sweet floral scent washing over him. He wove his fingers through her hair, tilting her head upwards to allow him to kiss her more thoroughly.

It amazed him, now, that Lothíriel had always put forth a very cool and collected appearance. For this woman in his arms was extraordinarily passionate. She was clearly enjoying the kissing and reciprocating in kind, almost desperately. Her hands were clenched around his neck, and as their bodies were pressed together snug, he could feel the frantic beating of her heart against his chest.

Éomer decided, in the only working part of his mind, that she had certainly been worth waiting for.

With a strangled gasp she pulled away, and dazed, Éomer blinked downwards at Lothíriel. She was staring over his shoulder and towards the citadel.

"Come!" she hissed, and grasped his hand before walking swiftly to their left. A sidepath he had not noticed before passed through a small doorway in the wall; he had to duck underneath.

"What is it?" Éomer murmured.

"Amrothos! Blast him—of course he would happen upon us just now."

His mind was still reeling, but he understood the urgency of avoiding her brother. Lothíriel glanced back, craning her neck despite the wall that now blocked them from view, but she pressed forward anyway. He felt no need to question this. It occurred to him then that he would not have allowed this the three years ago that they had met—he had changed. And so had Lothíriel; as soon as he thought this, she turned back to glance at him with one of her rare smiles.

Lothíriel drew them beneath the shelter of a tall tree (it was too dark to discern exactly what kind) and pulled Éomer close once more. There it was only them in the world: the tree protected them. Her lips were soft and her breath warm, and he touched the hot, throbbing skin at her neck as they drew in breaths together; breathing each other in. So closely intertwined, he sensed the sudden shift between them with her languid moan as she quivered and then buried her face into his chest.

"Éomer…" Her voice was husky, tremulous. "I—"

So dim was their paradise he could not see her eyes to guess at her feelings. He moved the hair back from her shoulders by feel rather than by sight, saying softly, "Speak your thoughts, _mín héorte cwéne_."

Lothíriel sighed. "There is too much to say. You will think badly of me."

"Start at the beginning, then, and I will reserve my judgement." Privately, he suspected that it was rather unlikely that anything could change his sentiments now.

"I care for you very much, Éomer," she said, and drew a deep breath. "Perhaps rather too much. When—when I saw you first in the citadel, I had only just heard of the death of my betrothed. I was grieving; I was upset...that much I have already explained. Then you turned the corner and I saw how damnably handsome you are, and the way you looked at me with fire in your eyes."

Éomer was smiling to himself, holding her close as she continued speaking; more quickly now that she had begun.

"If I considered infatuation at all comparable to true, honest love, I could say that I have loved you for a long, long time. But the guilt that began then, too; the tiny seed of denial blasted into a living, surging hatred of myself for it: Anardil newly dead and I already desiring another."

Her admittance to desiring him made a white flame leap through his veins. Suddenly her scent was much more heady, and her closeness all the more noticeable…

"You must understand," Lothíriel said, her voice wavering. "I do not blame you at all. This is my own fault; my own weakness. That I cannot control my own affections!"

"Lothíriel," Éomer said, interrupting at last and holding her at arm's length, despite his every instinct against it. "You are not to blame, either. Your soul has cried for mine as surely as mine has cried for yours—no one may have such control over fate to deny that!"

"I still feel guilt," she whispered. "Much as I have grown to love you, every thought of you is twinged with remorse."

"Then you will have to forgive yourself! You said earlier tonight that you no longer wish to be alone. Lothíriel... _mín héorte cwéne_...you do not have to be. I am here."

He realized that she was shaking, spent from her honesty or from their kissing, and Éomer drew her into an embrace once more. Her breathing shuddered her body, though he heard no weeping. She placed her hand on his chest, brushing her fingertips along the fabric to feel him...he was trembling, too. Then, astonishingly, Lothíriel began to laugh. The sound was deadened in the shelter of the tree, but that made it no less beautiful.

"Oh, my! Oh, Éomer! I have been a fool, haven't I? Too afraid of myself, believing that my own feelings should be denied. I have been rather unhappy, Éomer. I do love you; as much as a soul conflicted as mine can."

"Good," he said hoarsely. "Because I love you, and my soul is conflicted not at all. Please, Lothíriel...be with me always...so I might cease pining for you and start loving you fully."

"Pining? Why, Éomer, I did not realize you were so tormented!" Lothíriel had pulled away slightly, and he saw the sparkling mischief in her eyes.

"Little minx!" Éomer laughed, and tilted up her chin. "Perhaps I deserved that. Now kiss me again, _mín héorte cwéne_ , and then we shall decide our future."

* * *

 _That's it for now, folks! Let me know if you liked it._

 _I am currently writing a sequel, which picks up the day after this very lovely scene, and it is from Lothiriel's point of view. If you're interested, be sure to follow me so you can know when I begin posting it. (Gosh I just feel so smarmy asking people to follow me, I am sorry). Anyways, as always thank you for reading and all your support. Besos!_


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